


Means Something

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/F, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asala Adaar wants Cassandra very badly. She never gets her. (unrequited pairing/angst)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means Something

Sometimes Asala wonders if she's beautiful. She doesn't really know. She was raised with sturdy flowers, salt-air, and a mallet in her hands. A little gray girl, good for smashing things. Her mother called her "darling, darling," but she couldn't tell for certain if her mother was pretty either.

Humans were pretty, and elves too. With slender bodies and fine features. Dwarves too held a certain stocky sweetness. Hair in long locks, all of them, no horns. And so while the other vashoth around her says she is skilled, competent, and dangerous, Asala doesn't know if she's beautiful.

Asala meets a woman, the circumstances less than ideal. Her hair isn't long, but she is undoubtedly beautiful. Raven hair, delicate wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, no matter if she is smiling or scowling. Cassandra. 

Cassandra likes books about heroes and lovers. Heroes who are lovers most of all. So Asala helps her procure Varric's latest draft, against his intentions. She slides the book to Cassandra, her fingers lingering too long against the bindings. Oh, she only wants Cassandra's fingertips to graze against hers. Maybe then she would feel the spark, as Asala always has.

When Cassandra smiles at the gift, low and secret, Asala forgets all about touching fingertips. Instead she wants to lift the Seeker by her wide hips, pin her to the forge wall, kiss her senseless, breathless. She wants to grind her knee between Cassandra's thighs until she shudders all the way down. Wet, needy, wanting, Asala's hands are for more than smashing things.

But instead her cheeks warm. She says, "I'm glad you are happy," and promises not to hold Cassandra's secrets as collateral. If only she could share her own.

\--

The warmth of summer reaches the valley of the Hinterlands. They take off their boots to wade in the stream. Under their feet, the stones are smooth, worn down by centuries of caresses. Asala watches the sun set through the strands of Cassandra's hair.

Cassandra admits she wishes to be Divine. Because she still believes. She believes in the Maker, Thedas, and Asala. 

"I could not have asked for a better friend than you," Cassandra says.

The water has crept up their breeches to their knees. Tonight, they can dry them by the heat of the campfire.

Asala's mouth is empty, the words running back down her throat to flee.

\--

Sera tells her not to worry. The world is filled with lovely ladies with strong arms, nice tits, and ample thighs. "Well, right well!" Just look at Asala herself. "Fit. Fit. Fit."

Asala smiles at the thought, picking away at the too-dry cookie. They've failed in baking again. Somehow, she and Sera keep inventing new ways to be wrong. When Leliana isn't looking, they'll try and feed the aftermath to the crows.

When Cassandra passes below them, walking the courtyard with quiet composure, Asala knows she should look away. She shouldn't count the knots on Cassandra's braid. She shouldn't admire the pink on her cheeks, rendered by a few mugs of ale.

The sun is setting. It always feels like something is fading out, quicker than Asala can commit to memory. So she tries to remember Cassandra's gait, the swing of her body. She tries to forget Fairbanks, on business from the Graves, no doubt, walking beside her.

Sera says his nose is funny, and his accent stupid. Nothing worse than a noble pretending otherwise. Asala reminds her Cassandra plays that role so well they sometimes forget. All of them forget.

\--

She would have rather crushed Coryphaeus with the hard end of her hammer than torn him apart with the magic in her palm. Too late now. That sticky-sweet curse made Asala more than a simple mercenary. 

No, that hand took her to fortresses, grand balls, sweltering bogs, and glittering capitals. It put her within reach of someone so brilliant, Asala walks away blinded.

At Divine Victoria's coronation she does not protest. Nor does she cry, scream, break down at her loss. Asala sits at a place of honor above the crowd. Because she is Inquisitor, a treasured friend. 

Afterwards, in a moment of unexpected privacy within the din of festival, Cassandra says, "I am proud to have known you. I am proud of this continent, built and protected by women like you."

Asala reaches forward, touching the sleeve of the Divine's vestments. The fabric is sturdy, but lovely. Milk white. It makes Cassandra's cheeks look even more flushed than normal. Tonight, when Asala is alone, she will pretend the color was for her.

"Like us, Most Holy, women like us."

Asala does not worry anymore if she is beautiful. It wouldn't make one fucking bit of difference.


End file.
